


this fragile, frightening thing

by ArgylePirateWD



Category: Forever (TV), Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Shameless Self-Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-09-07 03:13:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20302504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArgylePirateWD/pseuds/ArgylePirateWD
Summary: When it comes to romance, Harold is not a shallow man, but he's also not immune to the power of being wanted—and, in Henry's words,courted—by a young man who is as attractive as Henry.It feels incredible.





	this fragile, frightening thing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ArgylePirateWD](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArgylePirateWD/gifts).

> I'm not even pretending that I didn't write this for myself...okay, actually I wrote it for a "100 words of crossover ships" thread on FFA a few months back and just never posted it there or here or anywhere else, and felt like treating myself with this self-indulgent fluff. If you can't treat yourself to self-indulgent fluff during this exchange, when can you?
> 
> Notes on the canons at the bottom, for people who might not be familiar with one of them.
> 
> Also, contains an instance of a character referring to himself with ableist language.

"You should know before this goes any further," Harold says, the night he realizes that this fragile, frightening thing between them is building into a romance, "that there are many things that I may never be able to tell you about me."

He is not expecting Henry to smile. "Harold, my darling," he says, stroking Harold's cheek, his eyes nearly black in the light of night, yet filled with warmth, "I'd wager that I have a great deal more secrets than you. If you are willing to accept that I have mine, then I can certainly accept that you have yours."

Harold thinks of the background check he did, Henry's spotty records that he's still itching to hack into and fix, and the many reasons he dismissed them. Henry's not the man he says he is, entirely, but neither is Harold. What mattered more was the evidence that Henry is a good, kind man—a better man than Harold, quite possibly.

At the very least, he's a good enough man for Harold to say, "I believe I can accept those terms," and kiss him.

They kiss outside the antiques shop, enrobed in fading summer heat and the glow of streetlights, his Machine no doubt observing and interpreting through the watchful gaze of the security camera across the street. Distantly, fleetingly, Harold wonders if this lovely gentleman who seems to fear and abhor technology in equal measure would still be kissing him if he knew what Harold had built. He drowns out that thought with the taste of Henry's tongue, with the pleasing shape of Henry's body beneath his hands and pressed against him, with the contrast of Henry's rough stubble and soft lips.

Henry kisses like he speaks, with grand passion and enthusiasm and a great deal of intellect, quickly learning what makes Harold moan into his mouth and repeating it until all Harold can do is cling. There's no hesitance, no struggle to adapt to the limitations of Harold's body, either. He kisses Harold eagerly, thoroughly, easily, until Harold is weak in the knees and nearly willing to add new varieties of public indecency charges to Henry's arrest record.

Harold tries to give back as good as he gets, but he is outmatched, and it is _thrilling_. No one has ever kissed him like this. He's not sure any of the people he's kissed even knew how. The fact that it's being done by a handsome Englishman who behaves like a figure from a beloved novel adds fuel to the fire in his veins as well. When it comes to romance, Harold is not a shallow man, but he's also not immune to the power of being wanted—and, in Henry's words, _courted_—by a young man who is as attractive as Henry.

It feels incredible.

By the time they part, Harold is breathless, sagging against the glass door as he tries to remember how to get oxygen into his lungs. "Wow," he says, eloquently, staring at Henry through fogged and crooked glasses, helpless to avoid reaching up to touch his own throbbing lips. "Oh, wow. Usually I'd never ask this, but where-how did you learn to kiss like that?"

Henry laughs softly. "It's a long story," he replies, with well-earned smugness in his voice. He straightens Harold's glasses, then cups Harold's face in his hands and kisses him again, tender and brief, and moves on to kiss his cheek, his sideburn, the shell of his ear.

Breath hot against his ear, Henry adds, "Abe is spending the evening with one of his paramours, and I recently acquired quite a lot of your beloved sencha," his rich voice a low, confiding rasp. Harold's breath catches, and his gut goes tight with want. "Would you care to come in for a cup of tea...or perhaps something else?"

Something else. Definitely something else. Harold shivers. "I would love to."

The Machine has other plans. Nearby, a payphone starts to ring. Harold briefly considers ignoring it, but saving lives must, of course, take precedence over romance. Though Henry doesn't know about the numbers, surely a doctor would understand that.

"But I'm afraid I must go," Harold says. "I have a busy day ahead of me. Another time?"

"Of course, my darling," replies Henry, and something about the endearment makes Harold grin helplessly. Then Henry kisses his lips again. "I look forward to it."

Harold waits until Henry disappears inside before shooting a glare at the security camera. The telephone continues to ring, his Machine unabashed. But his annoyance at having his date cut short is outweighed by the sheer pleasure of the evening. He feels good, body thrumming with a warm glow of happiness down to his toes, mouth curled into a foolish smile he can't suppress. He feels younger. Lighter. Happy.

It takes significant effort to drag himself toward the phone instead of calling Henry back. After one last glance inside the darkened storefront, Harold makes himself move. Along the way, he bumps into a man wearing a flat cap, and apologizes automatically.

"No harm done," the man says. Something about the look in his eyes stops Harold short, sends a chill through him. It's not anger, not irritation, not even the same kind of blank flatness he sometimes sees in Shaw's eyes. It's like looking into the eyes of a corpse, and having that corpse look back.

The man smiles briefly at him, like he can't remember how, and walks away without causing trouble. Harold shakes his head at himself, and forces himself to move onward. With each step, he is keenly aware of his limp, every patched-up, aching part of his skeleton cast into light. It's rare that he feels so small, old, and crippled, but he does now, unsafe in a way that's different from working a dangerous number. Goodness, he wishes he had Bear with him, or John or Shaw. Even Henry's elderly roommate would be a vast improvement.

He wishes he'd gone inside with Henry.

When he hears the latest number, he doesn't have to decode anything, recognizes the sequence instantly, his hair standing on end. It's his own—Harold Wren, Crane, Gull, more, his aliases spilling out with increasing urgency, his Machine ignoring all his old orders not to protect him. His stomach curdling, Harold turns around, and finds the man in the flat cap standing in front of Abe's Antiques, staring back at him.

_"I'd wager that I have a great deal more secrets than you,"_ Henry had said. Harold has a feeling he's just met one of them.

He calls John on the way to his car, and tells him to hurry. The man isn't holding an obvious weapon, but if there's one thing Harold's learned from saving the numbers, it's how to recognize dangerous people. This man is, unquestionably, dangerous.

Mere seconds later, John strides out from around the far corner of the shop and heads to the car, not taking his eyes off the man in the cap. For once, Harold isn't irritated by John's flagrant disregard for his privacy, not even when he spots the camera dangling from around John's neck. He'll save his annoyance for later. Now, he's just incredibly grateful as the door pops open and John slides in, asking, "You okay, Harold?"

Harold exhales with relief, thinking, _I am now,_ and says, "Yes. Thank you for coming."

"I got some pictures of your friend over there," John says, already taking off the camera and handing it over. Harold takes a look at the first photograph, that same chill of fear washing over him again, clenching around his chest like a vise. "Recognize him?"

"No," Harold replies, thumbing through a series of pictures of a man who looks more soulless than anyone Harold has ever seen. He's younger than Harold, but seems much older somehow, the way Henry does at times. "Should I?"

"Never seen him before." John leans over, looking at the pictures. "Could be an assassin, maybe? He's got the right dead-eyed look for it."

"Could be. Or he could be an ex-lover, or—oh." Harold reaches a photo of himself gazing at Henry with a lust-drunk, beaming smile. When Henry said "my darling," perhaps? He looks as happy as he'd felt. He looks besotted.

He doesn't know how he should feel anymore. His heart starts to ache. This thing with Henry won't last—_can't_ last; he's known that all along. But he had hoped to enjoy it for a little longer than this, at least.

John does have the decency to appear sheepish over the picture. "Sorry," John says. "Thought I got all of those."

"Hm. Did you have a good time on my date tonight, Mr. Reese?" Harold's thumb hovers over "DELETE." It's a very lovely picture. Wouldn't it be wonderful if keeping a picture of himself and a lover without layers of encryption wasn't a risk? If he could casually date someone without wondering which of them would wind up dead in the end.

But that's not the sort of life he lives. If it were, he'd be married to Grace right now. With a sigh, he deletes the photo. He can recover it later if he changes his mind, though he probably won't.

"Be nice if you guys went somewhere other than the opera next time," John says, with a tiny but obnoxious smirk. "It's hard to protect your somewhat questionable virtue from skinny dipping medical examiners when my ears are bleeding."

At Harold's disapproving look, John shrugs a shoulder, and says, "I can do a background check, too, Harold," in a saccharine tone. "But dinner was good. Your boyfriend picked a good spot."

"I thought you didn't eat in the field." He knew he'd seen John's shadowy figure skulk out of the restaurant before he and Henry finished, and he's torn between annoyance and amusement. He settles on appreciation again instead. If John hadn't been lurking...goodness. "I highly recommend saving room for dessert next time, by the way." He turns off the camera and hands it back. "Best crème brûlée in the city."

John chuckles. "I'll keep that in mind." Then, his expression and voice soften. "Sorry your date got messed up. Henry seems nice."

"Yes, he does." Harold glances into the rearview mirror, searching for the man in the flat cap. He's gone. It does not make him breathe any easier. "I hope he is."

**Author's Note:**

> For the non-Forever fans, Henry Morgan is a medical examiner who also happens to be over 200 years old and immortal (every time he dies, he comes back from the dead in a nearby body of water, naked). He helps the NYPD solve murders, lives with his son Abe in an antiques shop, and has a much older nemesis named Adam (the guy in the hat in this fic). Oh, and Henry really likes scarves. And he's been using the same name for centuries. Harold would be _appalled_.
> 
> For the non-Person of Interest fans, Harold Finch is a billionaire genius who built an AI that detects violent crime before it happens by watching everyone, has more aliases (most named after birds) than most people have pairs of underwear, and runs a little vigilante operation based on output from his AI. John Reese is his ex-CIA agent employee/friend who does the action hero-y stuff. They share a dog named Bear. Neither of them understands boundaries.
> 
> Both Henry and Harold love tailored three-piece suits and big words.


End file.
